Silenced Memories
by Shadowravyn
Summary: Darien Chiba knows next to nothing about the girl he hit with his car one night. What he does know is this: she has no memory of her past, her voice was lost in the tragedy that stole her identity, and there are men trying to kill her. And he loves her.
1. Default Chapter

**Silenced Memories**

**By Shadowravyn**

_I don't own Sailor Moon or any of the assorted characters. They belong to Naoko Takeuchi, Kodansha, and a whole bunch of other people who all have more money than I do. These characters are used without permission, but with tremendous respect._

The frantic girl dashed past closed shops and shuttered houses, feet pounding on the cement. She could hear the pursuit behind her, gaining with every step. Though younger and faster than the burly crew of men behind her, several weeks of insufficient food, shelter, and sleep were taking their toll on her. Her endurance was swiftly draining away from her, like water through a sieve; it did not help that these nighttime chases through the different districts of Tokyo were approaching the level of 'habit' instead of random occurrence. This was the third time in a week that they had been able to find her, and it seemed that this time they were going to catch her. If only she knew what they wanted her for!

Breath passed soundlessly across her lips and she looked for any spot of refuge. For all that Tokyo was supposed to be a never-sleeping metropolis, this area was certainly quiet and deserted—very likely the reason that had herded her there. So there would be no witnesses to see what transpired when they finally caught up with her; none that were willing to speak, that is.

"Slow down, little rabbit," one of the men cajoled behind her, his voice faint on the wind. "We just want to talk to you. A friendly little chat, belike. Surely you're getting as tired of the chase as we."

The girl dredged up another reserve of energy and began running even faster. She could feel the exhaustion settling into her limbs, but she willed herself to maintain this new, faster pace even as her body screamed for rest. If they were close enough to yell, than they were close enough to catch her. While she may not know exactly what it was they wanted with her, she was smart enough to realize that it wasn't simply a 'friendly little chat.' People interested in mere conversation didn't bring along several friends and an assortment of knives and cudgels. She slightly turned to glance over her shoulder; perhaps if they if they were still momentarily out of sight, she could find a place to hide and evade them for one more night. Some of the alleys across the street looked as if they could provide temporary asylum. She checked backwards again. Excellent, her pursuers were still not in sight. Keeping her attention focused behind her, she leapt off the sidewalk and into the street, completely heedless of the sleek, black car that was heading straight for her…

Chiba Mamoru, Darien to his few friends close enough to enjoy the privilege of calling him by a nickname, questioned once again the impetus that had sent him to the old haunts of his youth. Maneuvering his black Jag along the familiar streets, Darien was disappointed by how quickly the old neighborhood had deteriorated. Not that he had lived anywhere along her, but just around the corner was the old location of Crown Arcade, which had belonged to his best friend Motoki's father. He spent almost every afternoon at the Crown, mostly just hanging out with Motoki during his shift, as even at that age he'd found video games dull. The summer after their high school graduation was the last time he'd spent any significant time there, he'd left Japan to attend Harvard in the States. Motoki's dad had died a few years later, and Motoki had sold the old place to pay for medical school before Darien returned. Though upon his return, they had struck up their close friendship once again, the old arcade gradually faded from their memories, only brought up occasionally as they waxed nostalgic over a few glasses of scotch on holidays.

Until tonight, that was. Which was very odd, as Darien prided himself on not being overly sentimental. There was no reason for him to be driving through a neighborhood that had declined rapidly over the past decade or so in a car worth more than most of the residents made in several years, particularly considering he had a board meeting early tomorrow at the office. Yet some strange impulse had sent him down to see the old building where he had spent so many pleasant afternoons. He just couldn't understand it.

Perhaps the obvious explanation was the little scene at dinner tonight. He had broken things off with Beryl, and she did not take such 'insults' well. Never mind that it had never been serious anyways, simply an occasional dinner with sex to follow, and never mind that she was seeing several other men (though she doubtless thought him ignorant of that fact), Beryl prided herself on ending relationships on her terms and her terms only. Having Darien do so was a bruise to her pride, more than a blow to her emotions. Which was why she reacted the way she had; turning from a charming yet cold socialite into a shrewish, vituperative fishwife. Fortunately, as they had dined at his home that night, there was no one around to see her little display except the butler as he escorted her out—which she had also not taken well. Still it was a good thing that he paid his staff well enough to insure their silence; several of the insults she had flung could be described as highly uncomplimentary at best.

Yet the break-up with Beryl was no where near enough of a reason to send him out to visit old ghosts tonight. He had been planning the dissolution of their affair for almost a week, and had nothing emotional really invested in it anyway. She had been a convenience, nothing more: an attractive escort to functions that required one, a witty, though stinging conversationalist, and skillful enough in bed to keep his attention occupied for awhile. This meant nothing to Darien. _She_ meant nothing to Darien; there were hundreds of geisha in Tokyo who could boat the same skills, and thousands of eager socialites willing to brave his reputation for callousness and coolness for a chance at the Chiba fortune. So this strange whim stemmed from another source, one he could not readily identify.

His preoccupation with strange motivations was likely the reason that he didn't see the girl until it was nearly too late.

She darted out into the road with no thought that anything might be coming, looking neither left nor right. Though she was pale and luminous in the moonlight, Darien didn't even notice her slight figure until she was a few steps across the median, and practically within kissing distance of his front bumper. He slammed on the brakes of his Jag, hard enough to make the tires squeal, and his body surge painfully against the seatbelt. At that moment, she finally looked up, her elfin face caught in the glare of his headlights, horror written all over her features. Although he had not been speeding, Darien knew that he was going to hit the girl—he was too close _not_ to hit her. He yanked desperately on his steering wheel; perhaps he could spin the car and avoid her, or hit her, but not _crush_ her beneath his tires. The wide, panic-stricken blue of her eyes struck him like a blow; he would remember their intense blue for the rest of his life. There was time for one brief thought: _C'mon, just let this work…  
_

The car was on her in the blink of an eye. She'd been so focused in outrunning the threat behind her; she hadn't even noticed the danger barreling toward her until the shrieking of tortured rubber on unforgiving road. Hadn't even noticed the bright splash of headlights as she'd run into them. And now she was going to pay dearly for her lack of attentiveness. She wasn't sure, but she had a fairly good idea that being squashed beneath a set of tires would hurt more than whatever the bullyboys following her had planned.

There wasn't enough time for her to do anything more than close her eyes in anticipation of death before the car hit her. And it hurt. A lot.

The left edge of the vehicle's bumper caught her in the stomach and tossed her slight form high into the air. Lucky for her that it did, because had she landed any sooner, she would have either been struck by the side of the car, or fallen beneath the loudly protesting wheels, or both. As it was, she landed heavily on the roof, and then rolled down the back and off the trunk. Landing on the asphalt hurt a lot, too.

The car had turned nearly a full revolution by the time Darien got it back under control and fully stopped. The moment when the girl had been hit—the sickening crunch as the several ton car slammed into her thin body, the muffled thump as she'd hit the roof and then tumbled down its length, even the illusion of grace she'd had when she'd flown above him— they replayed endlessly in his mind in that span of a few seconds, and only his stern self-control kept his gorge from rising into his throat and beyond. He had to see if the girl was all right, if there was anything he could do for her. Hastily he clawed his way out of seatbelt and shoved open the door. He was thankful (though a little perturbed at the same time) that neither of his airbags had inflated, that obstacle would have taken even more time to get through. Not bothering to shut his door, he flew to the back of his car and stopped short.

Even though he'd been trying to prepare himself mentally for what he'd see, the pitiful sight that greeted him froze his heart. She seemed little more than a mangled lump in a spreading puddle of blood, curled up on her side. A worn sneaker lay several feet to the side.

He ran over to her and gently turned her onto her back, supporting her head with the crook of his arm. She moaned as he moved her, and his heart leapt up. She was alive! In horrible shape, but alive. Blood was welling from a deep gash in the side of her head, matting her long blond hair with streamers of sticky crimson. Her face and body were already starting to show signs of spectacular bruising, and it looked as if one ankle was swelling, though it was hard to tell with the remains of a sock on. Her clothing was in tatters, and he could feel sharp protrusion of her bones through the thin sheath of her skin. Fortunately, none of them were broken, or sticking _out_ of her skin. Her breathing seemed a little off too; there was a slight hitch every time she inhaled. He put his hand on the side of her throat to check her pulse, surely it would be racing—his was!—but hopefully not erratic.

At the touch of his skin on hers, the girl woke up immediately. _Run! _screamed half of her. _Too late! Caught! _shrieked the other half, almost incoherent with fear. She tensed as a renewed rush of adrenaline surged through her, and with that slight movement brought on new waves of pain. She grayed out again.

When she came too a second time, the first thing she was conscious of was that she had been shifted. Her entire upper body was being supported against something warm and soft, instead of lying prone against the cold ground. The second thing she noticed was that there was someone speaking to her, speaking in smooth, cultured tones utterly unlike the voices of her pursuers.

"It's all right, miss, you're gonna be okay. Can you tell me where it hurts?" the soft voice crooned. It kept up a babble of talk, probably just as much for his benefit as for hers. It took her a few more heartbeats to realize that her eyes were closed. It took an effort of will to open them, and even more to focus. Everything seemed blurry and muzzy, as if all the sensations were coming to her from underwater, or like she was wrapped in some kind of filmy gauze.

The first thing she saw when her eyes began behaving was a deep pool of cerulean blue. Her rescuer's eyes, she belatedly realized, filled with what appeared to be both concern and elation. There was a shock of blackness—_his_ _hair, _her mind whispered—and a rich crimson smear on his left cheek.

_That's probably my blood,_ she thought foggily, trying to make sense of everything. _I think he's trying to help me…_The concept seemed so foreign to her that she nearly doubted the proof of her own senses. No one had tried to take care of her since…well, before she could remember. It felt nice, even if the man taking care of her was the one who'd hit her in the first place.

Darien had nearly cheered when the girl's eyes slowly fluttered open. "Hey, everything's going to be taken care of," he told her, "you'll have the best care money can buy, I pledge it. You'll get better in no time at all. Can you tell me where it hurts you the most?" She gave him a weak, dazed smile, and something had flip-flopped in Darien's heart. Even covered in bruises, with her cheekbones too stark in her face to be healthy, the girl's smile was stunning. He noticed her confusion and assumed she had a concussion along with all her other injuries—in all though, she seemed to have gotten off quite lucky.

And, in what seemed like a stroke of more luck, he could hear footfalls coming from behind him. Likely people had heard the squeal of the tires and had come out to investigate. With a swift glance at his Rolex, Darien realized that barely five minutes had passed from the time he had hit her and now. Easing her against the back grill of his car, Darien stood and turned to face the approaching people. They stopped about ten feet away and looked at him appraisingly. "Can one of you call for an ambulance," he started to say.

"Give us the girl 'n be on your way," interrupted one of the men in front of him. He was swinging a length of chain, and had a smile that could only be described as sadistic. There were five, all told, and all cut from the same mold: tall, bulky, none-too-clean, each with the aggressive air of one who has taken what he wanted so often that he could no longer even imagine resistance. All of his instincts were letting him know that giving them the girl was a bad idea. Quite loudly, actually.

"I don't think you gentlemen understand the issue here. She has been hurt very badly, and someone needs to contact the police." Darien's voice was firm. "The only place this girl is going is the hospital."

"Why doncha stop worrying about police 'n hosp'tals and just hand over the girl," the first man suggested. "We'll make sure she gets to where she needs t'be."

"Somehow, I don't find that very reassuring."

The first man opened up his mouth again, about to say something angry and threatening if Darien read his face right, but another man silenced him with a wave of his hand. "Well now, why don't we start this whole thing all over," the second man said in a false 'let's-be-reasonable-about-this' tone. "I'm sure with all the excitement and all, we just let our nerves get the best of us. We're her _fambly_," the man said with a voice of pure sweetness. "Kino here is her brother, and is just a wee bit protective of our little rabbit. So now then, if you'll just hand over our little rabbit, we'll make sure she gets to a hospital right away."

Darien was amazed that a man with that many scars on his face could look as angelic as the other man did right then. Still, the man's innocent face and explanation did nothing to calm the jangling of his nerves. He saw no resemblance between the injured girl and this band of hoodlums, but the longer he waited, the longer she went without medical help. And it was possible that she belonged with these men. He just didn't believe it.

A small noise attracted his attention from the gang. There, nearly hidden by his back tire, was the girl's face, peeping out past him to the men beyond. Her eyes widened with fear, and she immediately began scooting backwards, wincing in pain with each movement. That was enough for Darien. If this girl was willing to inflict more pain upon herself to stay away from the men in front of him, than he was going to make sure she _stayed_ away, whether she was family or not. He owed her that much.

He glanced back at them just in time to catch them charging at him, clubs raised and chains flying. "_Shit!_" he spat, and dodged out of the way, just as a length of chain swung down and slammed into the metal of his trunk, hard enough that one could make out individual dents for each link. Five to one, not good odds. Five to one and they were _armed, _even worse odds. Fortunately, he'd been trained to handle such possibilities, back in the days of his young adulthood. He had never foreseen a day when the lessons taught to him by the old priest at the Hikawa Shrine (which doubled as an impressive dojo) would come in handy, but he was certainly glad to have been taught them. And that he'd never allowed himself to get out of practice. His body was a weapon, even years later, one that had been honed by the maturing and practice of the intervening years.

She watched in mingled fear and awe as the man who had helped her waded _into_ the group. Fear slowly vanished as she watched him evade a blow to the head by literally _writhing_ out of the path of the bat. And wherever he passed, injury followed. He took down the largest of them with a swift kick to the diaphragm, and another with a sharp elbow in the windpipe. He was beautiful, mesmerizing, deadly; like a tornado that destroyed everything that it touched. She nearly forgot the pain of her own injuries, even the one that made her feel as if she was inhaling burning ashes every time she breathed, captivated by the man's movements. It was like watching the dance of an assassin.

The last man standing, the one who had tried to speak with reason, broke away from the fray and lumbered towards her. She knew she could never get up in time, and that even if she could, there was no way she could run on her left ankle which felt as if the bones had been replaced with ground glass, knew that he would use that brutal knife he had just pulled from his pocket and snapped open on her voiceless throat. She cowered by the back of the car and watch Death approach with a malicious leer. She was done for. Again, she closed her eyes in anticipation of pain.

This time, however, it did not come. She heard a loud bellow, and her eyes flew open to see her attacker land face first into the asphalt, her rescuer's feet planted firmly in his back. The knife skittered out of his hands, and the other man dove for it, snatching it up with the grace of a hawk in flight. By the time the thug rose to his feet, his face bleeding from a broken nose and multiple contusions, the rescuer was standing protectively in front of her, knife at the ready.

"Take your boys and get out of here," he said in cold, menacing tones, "or I'll have enough of your skin to make myself a pair of slippers."

The other man looked back at his gang, who, for the most part, were lying on the ground and moaning. He looked back at her, glaring with hatred. "Don't think for a minute you're safe, girlie," he spat. "You're my prey, and I'll catch you yet, coney." He smiled at her shudder.

"Go!" her rescuer shouted.

Slowly and deliberately, he did, stopping at pile of broken men. "Get up boys," he said roughly. "We got stuff to do."

Darien watched them, his grip on the knife sure and steady. Had they even turned around once to glare, he would have thrown it. As it wasn't balanced and the distance was good, it probably wouldn't have hit anything, but he wasn't taking any chances. He still had no idea what was going on here, but he was determined to keep the girl from more harm than she'd already endured. When they were finally out of sight, he dropped the knife and turned back to the girl, still huddled against the bumper of his car.

"They're gone now," he told her gently. "And I don't think they're coming back." She looked up at him, gratitude shining in her eyes. Again he was struck by their brilliant blue. "It's the least I could do, considering what I've already put you through tonight. And I didn't think they'd shown up to ease your misery." _Put you out of it, is more likely,_ he thought with disgust.

Pushing that thought away, he reached down for her hand. "Do you think you can stand?" She shook her head and pointed to her ankle. Yup, it was definitely swelling. "That's okay," he said and bent down, gathering her up in his arms. As he lifted her, he was amazed by how light she was. Even given her slight stature and slim frame, she should weigh more than _this._ The sudden motion was a bit much for her. Blood rushed to her head, bringing unconsciousness in its wake. She sagged in his arms.

Out of the darkness came a loud report from behind them. Instinctively, he dropped, rolling over on top of the girl, fearing gunfire. After a few moments of silence, Darien cautiously raised his head, scanning the darkened streets and alleyways for any hint of movement. Nothing. With a bit more assurance, he stood. There, through the back windshield of his car, he saw the source of his scare. Immediately, he began to laugh, jostling her a bit as he held her limp body in his arms.

In the front seat of his Jag, the passenger airbag had finally inflated.


	2. Silenced Memories Chapt 2

Driving back the way he had come, the unconscious girl strapped securely in behind him, Darien reviewed his alternatives of what to do next. The girl needed medical attention, that was obvious enough—from what he could tell, she'd need it even _before_ he'd hit her with his car. Yet the existence of her assailants made a relatively easy task much more complicated. All of the nearby hospitals were far too public and easily entered. Those men were no fools—well, at least their leader wasn't—and they'd waste no time dispatching a few of their number to search the local medical facilities. And with as woefully overworked and understaffed as they were, those grunts would have little difficulty locating her, and even less smuggling her out. The staff likely wouldn't notice for hours, not until an orderly checked in during his rounds.

He could still hear the leader's parting shot as they'd retreated from Darien and their quarry. _"Don't think for a minute you're safe, girlie," _he had said—not loud and blusterous, but low and menacing. "_You're my prey, and I'll catch you yet, coney."_

He could post guards, of course, but that was a little more ostentatious an idea than he liked. He might as well post an ad in the local paper apprising all and sundry of her whereabouts. And how would _she_ feel, regaining consciousness only to find two hulking males looming over her? She might even do herself further injury trying to get away. And _he_ certainly couldn't stay with her. Who knew how long she'd need to be hospitalized for? He had a business to run—strategies to plan, meetings to attend, investments to oversee! Darien acknowledged that owed her a debt for hitting her with his car and all, but surely not enough of one to potentially cost him hundreds of thousands of American dollars, to say nothing of what that would translate into yen. He certainly couldn't take time out to play nursemaid to a girl he didn't know, especially since she could need days of care…weeks even!

Yet the wealthier, more exclusive private hospitals weren't a much better option than the public ones. The cost wasn't a deterrent—he could afford a month of care in such an establishment with the interest from a single investment. No, half the problem came from the private hospitals' locations. The closest clinic was a good hour away from his currant location; the others farther still. Darien was no doctor, but even he could see that she needed medical attention soon. He didn't like the pallor of her skin, even accounting for the way moonlight washed out coloring, nor was he overly fond of the way her breathing seemed labored. Very labored. Although she was unconscious, her face was twisted with pain and discomfort which only grew with every breath.

Their exclusivity was an issue as well. He had no idea who the girl was, not even the most basic information: name, birthday, address, nothing. He could just imagine it now, explaining the whole scenario to the head nurse on duty. "I've just hit this girl with my car. I know nothing about her, nor what else is wrong with her beyond Jag-induced injuries, but I do know that there is an entire group of guys after her." Darien's upper lip curled. He wasn't sure who it would be more fun to repeat that story to, the police or the reporters. But both would be after him in a flash if he dropped her off with a story like that. And it was well within the realm of possible that the hospital would refuse to admit her without proper identification and the chance of violence following her to their facility.

Which left one alternative. Dammit, he _hated_ asking favors, even from the only man he could call friend and mean it. Usually when he needed something done, he could call in the favors people owed _him, _leaving him beholden to no one. Darien had learned at an early age that it was far better having favors owed to you than by you. Even though Motoki didn't think like that—he occupied a place far removed from Darien's world of deals, lies, double-crosses, and contracts as iron-bound as one could make them—it was still hard for Darien to let his guard down that far. If the girl in the backseat didn't look so damn vulnerable…

His lip twitched again with sardonic amusement. It was a night already filled with unexpected events. Why balk now? And, besides, while he'd accepted that he owed this girl for harming her, he'd far prefer to transplant that debt onto Motoki, a known and trusted quantity. Motoki would likely never call that debt in, or, if he did, it would be for something minor that Darien could accomplish easily with either a wave of his hand or his name on a check. Who knew what the girl would end up asking for, should she ever become aware of the magnitude of the debt between them?

He'd found his cell phone in the backseat when he's buckled in the girl's prone form. It was a bit scratched and battered, but other than some cosmetic damage on the outer casing, seemed none the worse for wear. He reached for it now, back in the dashboard charger, his eyes never leaving the road in front of him. One catastrophe a night was enough, thanks.

"Motoki," he said, curtly. The voice-activated phone quickly retrieved and dialed the number. This time, a complete smile bloomed, although still full of black humor. Even his electronics hastened to do his bidding. Good. At least _some_ things were normal tonight.

"Moshi moshi."

"Motoki, excellent, you're home. I was worried that you had rounds tonight. That would have _seriously_ put a kink in my plans."

"Darien, hello! You're probably the last person I expected to hear from tonight. I thought you had plans…weren't you going to break things off with Beryl? Or is that why you're calling? She didn't seem like the type to take that quietly. Do you need me to set something, or did she just scratch your face up a little bit. I've seen her nails—they look like they could do quite a number on someone. I was never sure if that was nail polish she was wearing, or the dried blood of past victims."

"No, Motoki, I'm fine," Darien cut into his friends amused ramblings impatiently. "I took care of all that earlier."

" 'Took care of all that'? How romantic an emotional. Well, considering it sounds like you're not calling me for consolation over a broken heart, what's up?"

"I need a favor."

"Sure, no problem. Whaddaya need?"

Darien was torn between pleasure that his best friend would be so willing to help him out without first hearing what he was agreeing to, and frustration that his best friend would be so naïve as to agree to help him without first hearing what he was agreeing to. That kind of faith would get you killed in the cutthroat business world; financially and emotionally, if not physically. And Darien had known men that had chosen that last option when the first two had occurred. A little known fact to anyone outside their circle, but suicide was the most common form of death among Japanese business men/x/.

With cool pragmatism, Darien throttled down his frustration: Motoki's eagerness only benefited Darien in this case. Besides, trying to change his best friend's open, giving nature was about as fruitless as trying to teach a rock to sing. It was just a part of what made Motoki Motoki; and was probably the reason Motoki was a doctor, and not a giant of industry, like Darien was. And Motoki's sunny cheerfulness was a soothing balm sometimes, so different than Darien's own, far darker personality. He knew why he enjoyed Motoki's company, but was somewhat at a loss to figure out why Motoki so enjoyed his.

"Hey, Darien, you there? The wife's giving me an impatient look—she's just set dinner on the table. Hey, ya hungry? There's plenty and Reika was just complaining that we don't see you enough."

"Sorry, Motoki, I was changing lanes and needed all my attention on the road. And as much as I'd love to have dinner with you guys, I don't think circumstances are going to permit it. As a matter of fact, Reika's going to be more than just 'impatient' when I tell you my request. I need you, and whatever medical equipment you have handy, at my house as soon as you can make it. I'm afraid dinner—as delicious as I'm sure it is—is not an option." Darien's voice was grim.

Silence reigned over the line. Then: "Are you serious, Darien?" All of the jovial, good-nature had left Motoki's voice.

"As serious as life and death. And it may come to that if you don't get to my house as soon as you can."

"Jesus!" Motoki swore; the son of Protestant Japanese missionaries. "What the hell is going on?"

"I'll explain when I see you."

"Darien--" A pause, as Motoki gathered up his courage to ask his question, "this isn't anything illegal, right? Because you know that I won't be party to anything like that."

A trace of regret crept into Darien's voice, "Do you really think so little of me, Motoki? First that I would do something illegal, and second that I would drag you and Reika into it?" Motoki's question had hurt more than Darien ever would have expected. A deeper cut than he'd experienced in years, in fact.

Again, Motoki was silent for a moment. When he spoke, guilt and contrition were clear in his tone. "Look, Darien—no, I don't think that. I'm sorry. This whole thing just took me by surprise. I—"

"We'll talk about it at my place, okay?" Darien broke in, brusquely. "I've got to go so I can concentrate on the road."

"Where are you coming from?"

"The old arcade."

"_What?_" Motoki yelped, "What the hell were you doing _there?_"

I'll explain everything when we get there. Hurry." He shut the lid to his phone, cutting off the rest of Motoki's startled questions. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw that the girl had yet to regain consciousness.

"Shit," he muttered, stepping on the gas. "Motoki, hurry up. I don't know how much time we've got left."

At the end of the driveway—perhaps more aptly termed a 'private road'—Darien was glad to see Motoki had indeed beaten him home. It was a good twenty minute drive from Motoki's house to the outskirts of Tokyo where Darien made his residence, but almost double that when one was leaving from the Juuban district. He was gladder still to note that Motoki hadn't gone inside. At the first splash of headlights, he'd gotten out of his car and stood beside it, waiting. He smoothly pulled into the space before his front door—they'd hit a rough patch on the highway heading in, and he'd been horrified to see tears roll down her face. She'd nearly regained consciousness, or at least he thought she had, but it was hard to tell with her continued silence. He could tell she was whimpering in pain from the way she moved, but not a sound had escaped her lips.

He got out of his car quickly, and went straight for the back door, ignoring Motoki's hesitant greeting. He wanted to get the girl out before she could be hurt further.

"Jesus, what happened to your car!" Motoki exclaimed, looking at the front.

"I was in an accident," he grunted, bent over awkwardly trying to wedge his arms beneath her back and knees while she was still prone against the seat.

"With _what?_ An anchor!"

Darien carefully stood, the girl cradled against his chest and kicked the door closed. "No that's from about five minutes after I hit her." He gestured at the girl, once more unconscious, in his arms. Motoki straightened immediately. He'd been so taken up with the weird dents on Darien's beloved car that he'd missed what Darien had been doing in the backseat. The change in demeanor was instantaneous. Gone was all the usual jocularity, the air of absent-minded good nature. With a patient present, Motoki was all authority and business.

"Well, now I see why you called," he murmured, coming forward and taking a closer look. "I don't like the look of this at all. Bring her into the house while I get my bag. I want her on a bed in a quiet room with good lighting, and about a ton boiled water. _Now._"

Not wasting the time it would take to acquiesce, Darien headed for his home. Before he could do more than walk up to the front stoop, the door was opened, and his butler was bowing him in. "Good evening, sir—" Fumi stopped and looked at the battered girl his employer was carrying. "Shall I summon Mrs. Toshida?" he inquired, his calm, professional deportment shaken a bit.

"Yes, as quick as you can, Fumi. Tell her to put a giant pot of water on to boil and have her meet me in the first floor guest bedroom. Dr. Furuhata is here as well. Don't bother with him for his coat, just send him in here."

His butler obeying him with alacrity, Darien continued further into his house. For the first time ever, he wished it was not as spacious as it was. He longed to set her down, not because her slight weight was a bother, but because he was dreadfully afraid that he was harming her with every step he took. Motoki caught up just as Darien was laying her down on the crisp, clean sheets of the guest room. Mrs. Toshida, his ever-capable housekeeper, was not far behind with a basin of water. For a moment he wondered how even she could have forced water to boil so quickly, but then remembered this was about the time she had her nightly cup of tea. He stepped aside gratefully to let Motoki have a better look at her, and motioned Mrs. Toshida to set down the basin on the nightstand.

"Darien," Motoki said quietly, as he began unbuttoning the girl's shirt. "Go wait in the living room or something."

"_What!_ I'm not going anywhere!"

"Oh, really? When did you get your medical degree?"

"Medical degree? What the hell are you talking about? You know I don't have one—"

"Exactly!" Motoki whirled around, eyes flashing. "You don't have a degree, you're not a doctor, and therefore, you're not allowed to be in the same room when I am examining a patient! I will _not_ have her privacy breeched any more than I have to. Get out!"

Abashed and somewhat amazed, Darien retreated to the living room as ordered. He'd never heard Motoki raise his voice before; then again, he'd never seen Motoki with a patient before. He'd heard the passion in his best friend's voice when talking about his profession, but was still surprised at the tenacity with which he adhered to the Hippocratic Oath. In a way, Darien was almost impressed. Very few people dared to raise their voice to him, even fewer in the sanctity of his own home. That Motoki had done so, and then only in the defense of the girl's confidentiality, showed the depth of his dedication.

Close to twenty minutes passed while Darien waited, impatiently, in his living room. He'd tried to watch his television, but lost track of what was happening within moments. The same thing occurred when he tried to read a book, or glance through the papers in his briefcase. The entirety of his attention was taken up with whatever was taking place behind the guestroom door. In the end, he settled for pacing, pausing only once to accept the cup of tea Fumi pressed into his hand. Mrs. Toshida had entered the room several times, bringing in more hot water, and once leaving with an armload of bloody linen, but she refused to tell him anything other than "Dr. Furuhata seems to have everything well in hand, sir."

Just as Darien was going to either throttle his housekeeper to get more information, or break down the door to the guest room for the same reason, Motoki came into the living room. Blood was speckled on his sleeves, and his eyes were tired. He immediately sank into one of Darien's overstuffed chairs with a heartfelt sigh.

"So?" Darien demanded.

Motoki wearily raised his head. "Do you know you've got dried blood on your cheek?" he asked with a ghost of amusement. "And one hell of a bruise on your forehead. It looks like it's been quite a night. Want to tell me what happened?"

"I want to know what's wrong with the girl." Darien snapped.

"Well, for one thing, she looks like she's been hit by a car," Motoki shot back, with a bit of his own temper. "But before I can sort out what is a recent injury and what's not, I'd like to know what the hell happened tonight. So shut up and answer my questions first."

Surprised anew by Motoki's forcefulness, Darien obeyed; spilling out the events as he could remember them. When he got to the part about the run-in with the gang, Motoki started a bit, but gestured for Darien to continue. The retelling lasted almost longer than the accident itself, not even counting the break when Fumi came in with a damp rag for Darien to wash his face with as well as a cup of tea for Motoki.

"Ahh," was all that Motoki said when Darien's narrative concluded. "Hmmm. Well, that explains some of the things I was wondering about, though certainly not all.

"She's a very interesting case," he mused, staring into his teacup. "A mix of irregularities, I guess one could say. Just when I think I've got her all figured out, she surprises me again."

"She does?" Darien asked. "Has she spoken to you then?"

At that, Motoki shook his head. "I'm not entirely certain, but I'd say she's completely mute. At least, that's the impression she gives, what with not speaking and all. Would you like to see her?"

"Of course!" Darien leapt up. "I didn't want to ask; I was afraid you'd hit me or something."

Motoki laughed as he stood. "Just for a moment, mind you. I don't want to disturb her, but there are a few things I think you should see."

Fumi beat them to the guest room door, his face carefully blank, but his eyes alive with interest. Darien nodded as he stepped inside, if Motoki thought Fumi should leave, he's say something. Stepping inside, he got his first good look at the girl since he'd brought her home. Though the lights were on, she was deeply asleep. Her head was swathed with bandages, and her face a bit battered, but even so, there was a beauty to her. Golden eyebrows arched over closed lids, light lashes resting against her hollowed cheeks. Her lips were full and a delicate coral pink, slack with sleep, showing a row of even, white teeth. Her foot was elevated in a makeshift sling, and the rest of her body covered by a warm blue blanket. Even so, he could see additional bulkiness caused by more bandages around her ribs.

"She's still unconscious?" he asked, concerned.

"Shh!" Motoki silenced him with an abrupt gesture. "No, I gave her something to help her sleep once I ascertained that she didn't have a concussion and would be in no danger. Her body needs food and rest more than anything else. The drugs I gave her hit her harder than I'd calculated, and believe me, I took her size, weight, and condition into account while dosing her. If she's eaten anything today, I'll be greatly surprised. Hell, if she's eaten anything more than bare subsistence in the last _week,_ I'll trade in my stethoscope for a shepherd's crook and take up sheepherding."

"So, she's a transient," Darien murmured, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.

"You'd think that, but I'm not entirely sure," Motoki answered, even though Darien hadn't meant it as a question. "Like I said, she's full of surprises. Here," he continued, lifting up the girl's limp arm. "There are a few things I want to show you specifically."

Darien felt strangely reticent about examining her while she lay sleeping so peacefully in his house. It felt like an intrusion…a violation. "Are you sure?" he asked reluctantly. "What about her privacy?"

Motoki gave him a sour look. "Well, for one thing, unlike a half an hour ago, when you were so eager to see, she's not going to be naked."

"Hey!" Darien protested hotly. "That wasn't it at all, and you know it!"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." Motoki sighed, and ran his free hand through his short blond hair. "She's certainly not going to be able to be moved for at least a week. Wouldn't you like to know a bit more about her, both the injuries you'll have to watch and the mysteries she represents? From what you've told me, there are some serious people after her. You might want to know a bit more about the situation that you rescued her from, no?"

"Well, when you put it that way…" Darien looked over to Fumi, standing straight next to the door and being as unobtrusive as possible. "Fumi, unless the good doctor objects, you may wish to return with Mrs. Toshida. As I still have business to take care of, the two of you will likely be her primary caretakers for the next week or so, and should probably hear the diagnosis firsthand." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Motoki nod.

"Certainly, sir." Fumi bowed, managing to look as if he were simply obeying orders, instead of receiving permission to eavesdrop away. Darien's mouth twitched. His staff was just as curious as the next, but they conveyed an air of general disinterest and kept silent, at least with outsiders. That was really all anyone could ask for.

Motoki still stood at the girl's bedside, her arm dangling slackly from his gentle grip. "Uhhh, Darien, you wanna come over here and take a look at this? Or should I just wave her limbs around like a puppeteer?"

Rolling his eyes at his best friend's odd sense of humor, he examined the proffered hand.

"What do you see?"

"A hand." It was a nice hand, he could admit to himself. The finders were long and slender, but with no rings or identifying jewelry on them. Her wrist was slim and dainty, and what appeared to be a well-shaped forearm—if such things existed outside of romance novels—extended back to where the coverlet began.

"Look harder. Now what?"

"Still just a hand." Darien replied shortly. He despised guessing games.

"Look at her nails."

Sighing, he did so. "Yes, Motoki, they're nails. Fairly nice ones. Not very long though, nor, for some inexplicable reason, painted. Do I get a prize?"

"For sheer wrongheaded obstinacy, yes." Motoki also sounded exasperated. "From her general appearance, how long would you say she's been on the streets for?"

"Years, maybe? I don't know, Motoki, I've never sat down and examined all the stages of hobohood!"

"Are these the nails you see on people who live on the streets!"

"I'd say sure, except that they're clean!" Darien—almost—shouted. Then he stopped abruptly. "Wait, they're clean. And they're not ragged, either. It looks like she's filed them, and recently too, or they wouldn't be so short."

With the smile of a teacher who's finally made a breakthrough with a particularly stubborn student, Motoki nodded. "Exactly. She's remarkably clean, even for someone who's only been on the streets for a week or two. You may _not_ have dealt with the homeless before, but I have. Beside them, this girl glows like a pearl. She's clean. Her clothes have been inexpertly patched, but some care has been taken with them. They have also been washed recently. There are no food stains anywhere, either. And look," he said, turning her hand palm-up, "these are new calluses. The ones on her feet are new too. There are the remains of some cotton batting which suggests that she'd recently had blisters. But where there are no calluses, her skin is still fairly soft. She's either extremely new to the streets, or she's been taking care of herself. Or both."

"So what does that mean? She's a runaway? That would make sense, if that's why those guys were chasing her. If they were _my _family, I'd leave home, too."

"I did a thorough exam, at least as thorough as I could under these circumstances." Motoki's cheeks reddened, but his voice remained steady. "Mrs. Toshida was in here to verify. She's not been abused… sexually…more than that, she's still a virgin. Her hymen is intact. This also means that she doesn't ride horses regularly, do gymnastics, or use certain feminine products. Look at her. Even after getting hit by a car, she's lovely. How long do you think she could keep herself safe from the predators out there?

"Back to how clean she is. We discussed that she hasn't had much to eat in at least a week. I'd say from her vitals and the hollows in her cheeks and throat that it's been longer than that. Her stomach hasn't begun to bloat from malnutrition, but her body _has_ started eating away at some of her reserves. Yet, again, she's almost startlingly clean, once you got the road-grime off of her. Which means that she values cleanliness over food—but not to such an extent that suggests obsessive compulsive disorders. She has just been raised to a high standard of hygiene and refuses to compromise that, even when it's within her best interests to do so.

"Lastly, there's this." Motoki picked up a sheaf of papers laying on the nightstand. "When it became apparent she could not speak, I handed her a pen and some paper that I might be able to get _some_ information. For the record, she's not deaf. Just mute." He handed over all but one.

Not needing any prompting, Darien examined the paper. It was covered with an elegant, feminine script. The quality of penmanship spoke of hours practicing, a tedious chore Darien recalled from his own youth, making sure each stroke of every character was concise and clear. "She knows kanji. Fluently," he murmured to himself. "And these aren't ignorant responses. She's been well educated. High school at the very least."

"Precisely. Do these qualities match that gang of hers?"

"Not hardly."

"I didn't think so. So I think we can safely rule out that she has had any kind of association with them, at least not before the accident."

"Before I hit her?"

Motoki shook his head. "No, before whatever accident caused this." He brushed aside some of the bandages and gently touched her temple. There, at his fingertip, was a silvery, puckered scar, almost crescent-shaped. "There's one more thing that I haven't mentioned to you yet."

Darien could tell that whatever it was, he wasn't going to like it. "What's that?"

"She's got complete amnesia. She doesn't even remember her name." Motoki handed over the last page.

_Doctor, can you tell me who I am?_

_/x/I am making this up. I have no idea whether this is true or not._


	3. Chapter 3

_She swam like a minnow through the hazy seascape of dreams; never sure of where she was, or where she was going. Even here, within the confines of her own unconscious mind, she was pursued. Large, angry nightmare-sharks lurked in wait for her where ever she swam, tearing at her mind with their sharp, memory-fragment teeth. They could only catch her for a moment before she would wrench away and flee towards some momentary patch of safety, but those few seconds were enough to fill her with terrifying images: men swarming over a wall like a living tide, a woman's limp form resting in a pool a spreading blood, a man's sneering face becoming obscured as dark water washed over her face and her vision left her. While the images were bad enough, what was worse was the haunting sense of familiarity, as if she had seen these things before. Confused, frightened, a prisoner of her own mind, she did the only thing she knew she could do—she swam away from the nightmare- sharks and the cruel pictures they tried to show her._

_Occasionally, she would surface back to consciousness, breaking through the dark waters (so like the ones in the nightmare of the man's face) into the Bright World above. If she saw anything during this time, she could not remember it. Touch and hearing were her companions for those few moments she was lucid. There, in the bright world, there were no nightmare-sharks, but only cool, comforting hands, that stroked her hot forehead with cool cloths, and held her upright while they spooned warm broth down her parched throat. The hands changed sometimes. Often, the skin was soft and gentle, feeling like a bolt of silk against her fevered skin. A woman's hands, though she did not know how she could tell. The other hands were stronger, with a sense of controlled power to them. When she awoke to find these hands near her, she was deeply comforted, and the nightmare-sharks did not appear so rapidly when she sank beneath the waves again. It got so that she believed the hands were a talisman of protection against them; she would find herself grasping them tightly when she felt herself losing her grip on the Bright World again. _

_Sometimes, she would rise close, but not completely surface into the Bright World. It was there that she heard the voices, many, many of them. An older woman's voice, singing cheery tunes, or soothing lullabies. A man's voice, strength running like an electric current through it, inquiring after her health or her responses for the day. There was another man's voice as well, cheerful and competent who came in and spoke in jargon she could not always understand. These voices belonged in the Bright World, and she was comforted to hear them. Yet others rose up from beneath her, and these voices would fill her with dread. Often she could not make out any words, just an endless screaming that went on and on until the sky darkened around her and she sank into the circle of nightmare-sharks that were inevitably waiting for her again. She heard screaming, and a malicious laughter, and they both followed her down and down and down…_

Darien glanced over to the bed, while Mrs. Toshida filled him in on the girl's progress for the day, "…she ate a bit more of the broth than she usually does, and was able to keep it all down. Her fever still hasn't come back yet either, which Dr. Furuhata says is the best sign of all. He expects her to make a full recovery. She's been restless all day, which the good doctor believes that she is slowly regaining consciousness. He says she could come around at any time."

"Indeed," he murmured, still watching the girl. She was moving about a bit more than normal, even with her ribs still taped. For the first two weeks, she had lain passively on the bed, more like a giant doll than a human woman, her body wracked with pain and her mind beset by fever dreams. Motoki had been worried by the sudden onset of pneumonia, but not overly surprised.

"With all this girl has gone through recently, I'd have been more shocked if she _hadn't_ come down with something. Weeks of insufficient food, rest, shelter, and the weather's been turning colder…the extra rest isn't going to inhibit her healing much. It'll go slower than if she were perfectly healthy, but that's going to be counterbalanced by her being much less active. Still, keep a close watch on her—I don't want her fever to get much higher. Also, make sure she stays hydrated, and start getting some food into her. Liquids and thin solids are best—it'll put something in her stomach, without undue stress on the rest of her. It's going to take some time for her body to get used to having sustenance again anyway."

Close to a month had passed since Darien had first brought the girl into his home. The first two weeks, she had been unconscious almost constantly, first from the pain medication Motoki was judiciously giving to her, and then from the illness itself. The biggest issue was the result her constant coughing would have on her fractured ribs; she needed to cough to loosen the build up in her lungs, but her ribs needed to stay immobile for them to heal properly. Once, Motoki had asked Darien to move her to a hospital, just for observation, but Darien had simply raised an elegant eyebrow and asked what one-hundred percent foolproof plan Motoki had devised to keep her safe. With no answer in mind, Motoki had let the issue go, binding her ribs tighter and increasing the dose of the pain medication. As the pneumonia ran its course and her ribs healed, Motoki was able to begin easing her doses, and the girl began having moments of lucidity. They did not happen long, nor did they occur regularly, but they were signs that she was regaining her health and strength. Less than a week ago, Motoki had taken her off of the antibiotics completely, and had lowered her painkillers to almost nothing. Now, they all just played a waiting game to see when she would wake up completely.

They were all eagerly waiting for that time, and not just because they wanted to make sure she was entirely healed. She was a mystery, one that just begged to be solved, but until she recovered, there would be no more forthcoming clues. Motoki's examination had revealed everything it could about her physically, now they just had to wait until she was capable of communicating with the again. There were certainly dark secrets buried within her mind, one didn't have to be a psychic or a psychologist to realize that. Many of the times that she began to silently writhe or whimper, it wasn't pain that twisted her face, but fear. The first time she had violently clutched his hands to her chest, he'd jumped back, startled, but had soon noticed that when she held on to his hands, she calmed, her face smoothing out once again.

Again, Motoki was there with an explanation. "She trusts you, old son. You may have whacked her a good one with your car, but you're also the one who saved her from those thugs, and brought her home to food, rest, and medical attention. Now, whatever horrors her mind holds for her—and being unconscious, she probably a lot closer to them than usual—you seem to be the only talisman that can keep them at bay. If that's what works, let her use that, it'll only make things easier for her." Then he'd laughed. "Who would have thought that _you'd _be playing a shield for an innocent damsel in distress?" Darien had just given him a sour smile in return; most of the time, Motoki's sense of humor went in for the bizarre.

Still, since then, whenever he went into the girl's room to sit and watch over her, he'd pull the chair close to bed, and hold one of her cold, thin hands. Often, there'd be no reaction at all, save for a slight ease to her breathing, other times, a slight, but breathtaking smile would flit across her face. Either way, holding her hand helped ease some of the guilt that constricted his heart whenever he looked at her slight form, still bundled in bandages.

Guilt was a fairly new sensation to Darien, at least, guilt this all-encompassing. He was a business mogul, used to performing deeds that certainly weren't going to be earning him a spot on anyone's "Nice Guy" list. No, he never tried to harm anyone _personally_, but he certainly didn't balk at a business venture if it meant that someone, somewhere was going to be harmed by it. Business was like gambling: for someone to win, others had to lose, and Darien played to win. If other people hadn't realized that yet, that certainly wasn't _his_ fault. He'd been burned plenty of times in the beginning, too, but that hadn't stopped him from playing. Instead, he's retrenched, absorbed the lesson that his failure had taught, and the ventured forward again, less vulnerable than before. He'd learned that he was in the business of making money, not friends; and while he never stooped to anything illegal or unethical, that didn't stop him from being cold, calculating, or cunning. He was ruthless, brilliant, and practical, a combination that made his business rivals sweat. Still, while people called him a merciless bastard behind his back (and one unforgettable time, directly to his face; an accusation that had simply made Darien laugh), Darien had a personal code of honor that forbade him to harm an innocent. Which was made much easier by the fact that he rarely found himself near anyone he considered to be such.

He'd learned at an early age that keeping people distanced was the only intelligent way to deal with the them; even before he had ventured into the business realm. His relationships were all cool, casual affairs like the one he'd shared with Beryl: useful for decorating his arms and warming his bed, but nothing further than that. Fortunately, he knew plenty of women who not only understood the limits he imposed, but enjoyed them. A brief fling, with no expectations or promises, ending before any kind of commitment was even possible; yes, he kept his attentions to the women who knew the score and would have been appalled if he'd offered them anything further or more lasting. His business relations were handled much the same way. He had a circle of acquaintances that were useful for business contacts and opportunities, and dutifully attended social functions where his presence as a major businessman was required. Outside of that, Darien chose to keep his own counsel. This had nothing to do with expediency, simply that Darien vastly preferred his own company to that of most others. The only two exceptions he had ever allowed to enter into his heart and life were Motoki and Reika, and it had taken years for even Motoki's irrepressible charm to penetrate Darien's tough exterior. Now, it seemed as if this injured girl was slipping beneath his defenses as well, and she wasn't even conscious while doing it. The aforementioned guilt had been the first chink into his invisible armor—by doing her a great injury, even accidentally, he had violated his own code and that demanded that he make reparations. However, simply providing her the medical care she needed, and then a bit more in the way of funding after her recovery was complete, would have sufficed if he were motivated only by his guilt. But that was not the case. The girl's vulnerabilities awoke within him an heretofore unexpected desire, nay, _need, _to protect.

Well, to protect her anyway. He'd just concluded a deal this afternoon that certainly suggested that he didn't need to worry about any new humanitarian impulses cropping up in his business dealings. He hadn't put any of his rivals out of business today, but it hadn't been for lack of trying.

Yet, sitting next to the girl, knowing she was relying on his touch to keep her safe, made the world of business machinations seem very far away. Fortunately, he still had enough self-control to convince himself it was only because he was interested in the mystery she represented. That was some comfort, anyway.

_Her very existence became an endless round of swimming and surfacing and sinking again. She became more adept at fleeing the nightmare-sharks, and it felt as if she were growing stronger as well. She was able to escape them more quickly, and the images they projected at her were becoming more blurry, losing their cohesiveness, and their ability to provoke a nameless dread. Yet right now, there weren't any in sight, and it seemed as if the border to the Bright World was closer today than it had been before. Usually, it took all of her energy to break through to the surface, and that left her far too drained to stay very long. This time, however, she felt different. As if today, she could possibly win her way through, and stay in the Bright World forever. Swimming down as deep into herself as possible, she paused for a moment, then spun around and shot to the surface, as fast as she could go. Nightmare-sharks lunged at her, tried to catch her and break her momentum, but she was agile and quick, and they could not touch her. As she came closer to her goal, she could hear the voices again, especially the voice that made her think of the air right before a thunderstorm, quite, but filled with unleashed power. She took strength from that voice, and put on an extra burst of speed, shattering the barriers that had kept her chained in her unconscious mind…_

The first thing she noticed was that the Bright World (_consciousness, _her mind whispered,) really _was _bright. There was too much light to see properly, and she'd had to close her eyes a moment after opening them, because the sudden, unexpected pain. She tried to raise her right arm to shield her eyes, but could not because her hand was caught in something. She moved her left arm as well, suddenly terrified that she had been caught and bound. It moved easily. An inaudible sigh escaped her lips, followed by an abrupt influx of memories: the crash, the fight, the examination by the friendly doctor with the laughing eyes. And her dark savior; he'd rescued her from the men, the streets, and even her own troubled mind.

"I see you're awake." The voice was familiar, dark and rich like pure Swiss chocolate. "That's excellent news. I was starting to think that you were indecently lazy." Her eyes had grown used to the light a bit more, at least to the point where she could look out through the veil of her golden lashes. There, sitting next to her bed, was her rescuer. His dark hair was somewhat tousled, and he wore a languid half-grin as he looked down on her. Her right hand was tucked securely into his own, which explained why she had not been able to remove it. Another quick glance showed that he was dressed in a warm, cranberry sweater, opened at the throat, and a pair of comfortable khaki pants that looked crisply tailored. In all, he looked relaxed—almost indolent, but there was something about him that made her think of a giant panther: all coiled power held in reserve, but accessible at a moment's notice.

"How are you feeling?"

Automatically, she opened her mouth to answer, but not a sound emerged. She flushed, and he had the grace to look chagrinned. "Not only a stupid question, but one thoughtlessly asked. I apologize. One moment please."

She felt a brief stab of disappointment when he released her hand.

"First of all, you've been unconscious for a long time—nearly a month," he said, in answer to the question he saw leaping into her face. "So, I'd be able to tell that this light is probably God-awful bright, even if you _hadn't_ been squinting and blocking it out with your hand. You're probably also hungry, as we've pretty much kept you to an all-liquid diet, and possibly a little sore, considered you still have a few healing injuries, and stiff muscles from not moving around much." While he was cataloguing her list of plaints, he'd been methodically moving about the room, shutting the shades at her window, turning off the overhead light, and turning on another lamp closer to her bedside, which gave off a dimmer, golden glow. "So, did I miss anything?"

She gave a brief, internal check, moving her various limbs and doing a bit of stretching. For the most part, he was correct, but he had missed one vital issue. Biting her lower lip and flushing a bit, she pointed at her bladder, and then her kidneys. She was pleased to see that he got her message immediately.

"Ah, yes, well, I guess that does make sense. Your bathroom is connected to this room--" he pointed at a small door on one side of her room, "and I think I'll just step right along and have Mrs. Toshida come and help you there. I don't believe you're up to walking unaided quite yet."

Her face fully aflame now, she nodded in gratitude as he gracefully slipped out the door. The last thing she wanted was his help in going to the bathroom, no matter how normal a function it was. Actually, that was the second to last thing she wanted. The _actual _last thing she wanted to do was find out how that necessity had been taken care of while she was comatose, and what role her savoir had played during those times. There were certain bodily functions she was uncomfortable envisioning _any_ stranger aiding her with, but especially a strange male. That went double for one that she was already finding devastatingly attractive.

She had been prepared to be embarrassed about the whole ordeal—invalid or not, she was a grown woman with an adult's control over her bodily functions, but the bustlingly efficient Mrs. Toshida did not allow for such futile emotions. "So, it looks like you've finally come around," Mrs. Toshida announced cheerfully as she entered the room. Pausing for a moment to find the best place to situate the large, pewter tea tray she was carrying, she then continued, "that'll please the doctor. He said you'd be waking up any moment now. I figured I'd come in and see if you needed a hand while _he _called the doctor and told him the good news." During the brisk explanation, Mrs. Toshida had maneuvered around the bed, turned the covers down, and helped the young girl to her feet.

It was a staggering walk, as her knees threatened to buckle with almost every step, and her ankle still was not up to having all of her weight supported on it at once, but the petite housekeeper never seemed to have any trouble compensating. Once they entered the bathroom, Mrs. Toshida guided her over to the sink, and made sure she had a good grip on the counter before letting her go completely. "All right, dearie, I'm going to run you a nice hot bath now," she said, pointing across the bathroom to where a large screen rested in front of an absolutely enormous bathtub. "A month of sponge baths may be fine for an invalid, but now that you're awake, you probably want something a bit more substantial. If you need anything, just let me know, but you'll be fine, won't you?" She smiled a bit at the girl's enthusiastic nod.

Mrs. Toshida had considerately placed her very close to the room's other facility, but it was still a few moments before she was properly situated upon it. By that time, Mrs. Toshida had already drawn the screen and started the bath water, providing excellent cover noise. As an additional precaution, she was also keeping up a running monologue, listing the chores she still had left to do, "Well, since the doctor is likely coming over, I'll need to set out a few extra place settings, I'll have Fumi set out another bottle of wine to chill as well. I should also add some juices and fresh fruit to the market list, we'll be needed them as winter comes in…" The girl flashed a quick grin; this wasn't quite as good as being able to use the bathroom alone, but she did appreciate the older woman's attempts to grant her as much modesty and privacy as possible.

Using the sink once again to leverage herself up, she made sure her nightgown was straightened and her hands washed before she pulled on the little chain connected to the toilet. It was an additional moment before Mrs. Toshida pulled the screen aside. She beamed to see the girl standing up and drying her hands on one of the thick navy blue towels next to the sink. "Ready for that bath?" was all she said, however, then laughed at the girl's excited grin. This time, instead of ducking under her arm and holding onto her waist again, Mrs. Toshida clasped the girl's arms, and guided her to the bathtub. They wobbled a bit more on the trip, but every step was a small victory. "From unconscious to walking in just a few short moments," Mrs. Toshida cheered. "There's no doubt about you getting better, now."

It wasn't until they reach the tub itself when trouble reared. Leaning against the wall, the girl waited for Mrs. Toshida to leave so she could get undressed and step into the tub. The water steamed, and the subtle fragrance of cherry blossom bath salts reached her nose. It looked so hot and inviting, and she couldn't wait to let the water close over her skin. However, it was just as apparent that Mrs. Toshida, for all her delicacy just a few moments before, had no plans to leave. Slightly irritated, the girl pointed at herself and the tub, then made brisk shooing motions with her hands, hoping her smile would add a bit of politeness to the gestures.

Mrs. Toshida just shook her head firmly. "Sorry, dearie, but this time I'm staying." The girl also shook her head, and intensified her movements. However, her will was nothing compared to the solid granite wall that was Mrs. Toshida's approach to duty. "Now listen here, young lady. Who do you think has been keeping you clean for the last month? Is that honestly something you think I'd allow any of the men to do? I've seen every inch of you, and there's nothing you have that I _hadn't_ seen before anyway, so you can stow that modesty away until it's needed again." Embarrassed anew at the reminder that she'd been bathed in her sleep, still the girl held her ground.

"You're going to need a hand both with that nightgown and getting into the tub," Mrs. Toshida continued on with her relentless practicality. "Your ankle isn't strong enough to hold you yet, and when you put your weight on it to step in, you're going to fall flat on your face. More injuries are the last thing you need right now, missy, and if you fall _into _the tub, there's a good chance you could drown before you right yourself again. I refuse to have to explain to Mr. Chiba or the good, young doctor how you managed to kill yourself while I was supposed to be taking care of you. Now then, I can either lend you a hand, or I can strip you and dump you into the bathtub. It's your choice." Eyes flashing mutinously, the girl turned around, allowing Mrs. Toshida to begin unfastening the buttons that held her nightgown closed from collar to waist. Getting into the tub, there was one treacherous moment when she thought she was going to fall, but Mrs. Toshida's strong arm was there to catch her before her knee had finished buckling. She gave a rueful smile as a thank you, and Mrs. Toshida patted her hand in response. "Don't worry, dearie, this is only while you regain your strength. You'll be back to taking your own showers before you know it."

Leaving the girl to get settled into the tub, the housekeeper returned into the bedroom for the tea tray, and then brought everything back in to the bathroom. The tea tray, the girl was delighted to find, was an ingenious contraption. While it looked like an ordinary tray, wooden legs were built into the bottom and unfolded out. Completely assembled, it was the same height as the sides of the tub. She could drink tea and have a few pieces of toast while reclining in the bathroom, and not have to fumble around on the floor trying to feel for where she'd left them, nor worry that they would fall into the tub itself, being precariously perched on the water-slippery surfaces. Even better than that, when Mrs. Toshida closed the curtains around the bathtub, there was a convenient opening for the girl's arm to reach through to reach the tray.

She leaned back against the back of the tub, letting the hot water soak into her muscled. The shower curtains were a dark blue, and the light that shined through them was dim and comforting. It felt good to be somewhere completely warm and safe, and somewhat private as well. As if sending the girl's mood, Mrs. Toshida did not attempt to initiate conversation, instead pulling out some knitting and devoting her attention to the afghan that was slowly forming. Even the steady clacking of the needles was downed out by the sound of the water lapping against the sides, and the girl could pretend for a few moments that she was completely alone.

Never had a simple bath felt so wonderful. She hadn't had a proper bath in…well, longer than she could remember. Living in the streets hadn't provided for many opportunities to get clean, and those few it did provide were scanty, inferior specimens at best. Quick showers at some local shelter or gym were okay, but she had learned swiftly that anything left unguarded for long was considered fair game by the other homeless people waiting for showers. Also, the showers were communal, which carried their own dangers as well. Just because the showers were segregated by sex didn't mean that anyone was safe. Sometimes, the strongest there simply wanted to show off their power. Sometimes, they wanted…other things. No, the showers were no place to dawdle; just a brief scrub to make sure she was clean, and then she was gone. Because of her silence and her tendency to keep her head down, she'd escaped the worst, but she'd seen more than enough. And the same instinct for danger that let her know whenever the men were getting close to her, also let her know when the showers were an unsafe place to be. More than once she'd stopped a shower abruptly, still covered in soap, to walk out and get her clothes. And seen the angry looks on some of the other faces, the expressions of predators whose prey was escaping.

The alternative to the showers was just as bad, however. Public fountains were a ready source of clean water, but they were also, well, public. During the day, she could get away with washing her face and hands in the fountains, especially if she made it look as if she were overheated a bit and just needed to cool off, but washing anything more than that was something that her pride could not tolerate. People rolling up their sleeves or pant legs to wash their bodies was a common sight, and common knowledge that those people were homeless, drifters, too poor to go anywhere else. Though that might be true in her circumstances, she'd be damned if she let anyone else know that. She didn't want to see the expressions of mingled pity and disdain in their faces when they looked at her. At night, it was possible to sneak a quick was at a public fountain, without the prying eyes of the public on her, but the nighttime held different dangers. Nighttime was when the _real _predators came out to hunt, ones that made the cruel women in the baths look like mice. Better to go dirty than to risk being caught.

She let herself drift, like a flower on the waves. Here, she was safe; if they'd wanted to hurt her, they'd had plenty of time to do so. And amongst her admittedly rich and luxurious setting, she felt more like herself than she ever had before. It was as if some part of her recognized these _types_ of surroundings, and responded to them. Settling back, cradling a mug of tea in her hands, she closed her eyes and track to track down where this elusive feeling of familiarity came from.

"So let me get this perfectly straight. You managed to lose the girl—again." Tonsho, the angelic-voiced leader of the gang, audibly swallowed, but did no more than nod. "You are aware, that this is the second time that you allowed her to disappear completely. There has been no trace of her for over a month. What have you to say for yourself?"

"We've been looking, sir. We've checked hospitals, morgues, shelters, everything. We think she's with the guy that helped her out that night."

"Oh yes, the mysterious man who single-handedly trounced you and your men. Another telling point that suggests I hired the wrong crew to get this done. You still haven't been able to figure out who he is, correct?"

The office was dark, the only light coming from a dim lamp on the wide, mahogany desk. Behind that desk sat Tonsho's employer. He was puffing on a cigar, with his feel kicked up on the desk in front of him, but Tonsho was not fooled by the relaxed pose. There was an ugly tension in his voice, and an air of barely restrained violence in the room. While Tonsho was fairly certain that he could take the other man in a fight, he doubted that it would ever come to that. Though he'd never clearly seen the man's face, everything about him screamed "snake," from the sinuous way he moved, to the oily, unctuous way he spoke. One had to _listen _to hear the steel threat under the velvet words. Tonsho never doubted that hidden in the room somewhere was a gun, or something equally lethal that could take him out if he ever made one move his employer didn't like. He would prefer it if the other man just said "One wrong move and you're dead," but he got the feeling that this man never did anything straight forward if there was an underhanded way that would yield the same results.

"Let us catalogue your list of failures so far, shall we? You managed to not only _not _kill our little rabbit the first time, you also let her get away from you. Then, it took you well over three weeks to find her again. In that span of time, she could easily have found sanctuary and spilled everything she knew. Which, may I remind you, not only includes information about _you _but also information about _me_. I'm sure I hardly have to tell you that that is insupportable."

"But sir, I told you, she didn't say nothing. I don't think she can talk at all. And when she runs from us, it ain't like she recognizes us. She just runs."

"That is irrelevant. Just because she didn't say anything doesn't change the fact that she could have. Your idiocy gave her the opportunity to do so. Then, once one of your men finds her, he bungles the mission to such an extent that you never have a chance to close. _Whose _bright idea was it to try and snatch her off the street in broad daylight!" Tonsho winced. It _hadn't _been his idea, but as leader, he took the blame anyway.

"Any number of nonviolent ruses would have worked, and kept her guard down, but no, again, I had to employ morons! Somehow, it is impossible for your gang to chase down one half-starved girl, never once catching her in the course of two weeks. The one time you get close enough to do so—or so you tell me—she is suddenly saved by some caped hero who comes down from above in time to kick your sorry asses and then take the girl and fly away." The sarcasm was becoming biting now.

"And now, for over a month, we're back at square one, no idea where she is, or what she's saying. Every time the door opens, I have to brace myself in case it's a police officer wanting to have a pointed talk to me about the…issues of a few months ago. And, again, this is all due to your ineptitude. What have you to say for yourself?"

All of Tonsho's usual eloquence deserted him. He just shrugged helplessly. _I've got more men out looking for her than ever before, I'm calling in favors from other people. I've also widened the search a bit, and have people combing her usual haunts. I've also got some nice-looking girls on standby who'll be able to draw her to a secure location once we do find her, and won't wince when the job is finished._ Unfortunately, the man behind the desk already knew that. That was the original report from over a month ago, but nothing had changed. Sure, he was pouring even more people into the search, but without any idea where she went, it was like looking for a needle in an entire field of haystacks.

The man behind the desk watched Tonsho squirm with pitiless eyes, fully aware of the dilemma going on inside the gangster's head. When the silence stretched out beyond a few minutes, he waved a hand. "Forget it. I see that nothing has changed. Listen to me very well Tonsho. If the rabbit is not found before the week is out, I will be very…put…out." He enunciated the words very carefully. "I have waited far too long for this to let one slip of a girl and an incompetent gang of bully boys destroy all of my hard work. Either you find her, or someone from the city morgue will be finding you."

Darien was in his study, pacing, when Fumi announced the arrival of Dr. and Mrs. Furuhata. _How long does it take to get the girl to the bathroom and then dressed in something decent, _he growled to himself. _It certainly shouldn't take twenty minutes! And yet, here are Motoki and Reika, but no sign of the girl._

"That impatient to see us?" Motoki teased from the study doorway. Darien glared at him briefly, but stopped mid-pace and put on an expansive smile.

"To see you? Certainly not. Reika, on the other hand…" he gave his best friend's wife an openly admiring glance. "Always. I keep telling her we should just run away together, but she worries about who would keep you fed if she left." All three of the grinned. It was a rare few who got to see Darien's playful, teasing side; most people weren't aware it even existed. "Hello, darling, how are you?" he asked, giving Reika a quick hug. "Finally got curious about your husband's newest patient?"

She hugged him back, kissing his cheek. "I've _been_ curious," she said, "but I didn't think I'd learn much from watching her sleep. Now that she's awake, wild horses couldn't keep me away." She frowned at Darien. "Convention says this is where I need to tell you to eat more, that you're looking too thin, but Mrs. Toshida does too good a job for me to do that."

"I'm sorry my bachelor existence leaves you nothing to criticize."

"I didn't say that, I just said I can't harp on what you're eating. I can still tell you're working yourself to the ground though. You look tired. You need to sleep more."

"It's nice to know you care, dear."

"I wouldn't go that far. But when you keel over from exhaustion and overwork, who am I going to foist Motoki off on when I want a girl's night out?" They all laughed a bit at that. Fumi then returned with a tray of refreshments, and they all settled down in Darien's study; he in his overstuffed leather chair, and the two of them curled up together on the loveseat, looking for all the world like a pair of dating teenagers. On a deep level, Darien envied their sweet, easy relationship, one only had to look at them and see they were in love. But, as usual, his pragmatic side squelched that thought before it could become fully formed. True love came to very few outside the movies. That Reika and Motoki had found it did not mean that he ever would, especially when he didn't want to lower his internal defenses enough to let someone else in. Love was a game of power that only came out equal on the rarest of occasions. He didn't want that kind of power over someone else, and was damned sure he wasn't going to give anyone that power over him.

"So Reika has another reason for being here besides just gracing us with her company," Motoki said in between sips of tea.

"Really?" Darien raised a charcoal eyebrow at his best friend. "Is keeping you out of trouble become a 24 hour job now?"

"Har har. Actually, my beloved wife has a skill she thinks may come in handy tonight."

"What's that?"

"I'm fluent in sign language," Reika answered, setting her teacup down. "Both ASL and Tokyo JSL. I studied it for about three years in college."

Darien whistled. "Yet again, my dear, you amaze me. This is going to make talking to her much easier than waiting for her to write it all out."

"I thought it might," she said smugly. "And if you boys are very good, I might even tell you what she says."


End file.
